


Hunger Hurts But Starving Works

by wildestranger



Series: Hunger Hurts [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:39:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2825402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildestranger/pseuds/wildestranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When Grantaire tries to explain to other people that he goes to a weekly pub quiz with friends he met at university, he tends to get baffled responses; he’s aware it looks weird from the outside. He could say that they all bonded by being part-French or almost-French or pro-French at an aggressively British university (which is true), or that he’s there for the quiz, since his team comes second every time and he’s now too invested to stop going (also true), or that he doesn’t really want to be there, but is unable to stop (mostly true).</i>
</p><p>  <i>He has stopped trying to make sense of it. He knows how much Eponine would make him regret it if he failed to show up, for one, and the sad emails from Jehan and Courfeyrac wouldn’t bear thinking about. He also knows that he would never stop going, because he tried to wrench himself away once and it didn’t stick; there is no hope for him now. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic last Christmas, with the idea of writing something short; a story in which Grantaire gets what he wants, namely, a thorough seeing-to from Enjolras. 
> 
> This story is not short. However, Grantaire will end up getting what he wants, at some point in Chapter Five. Somewhere around the 50000th word.
> 
> So: it's a modern British AU (as there are a million American AUs, I see no reason not to transplant them into modern London), in which Les Amis are thirty-something professionals, who argue about British politics and go to their local pub quiz every week. This will involve a lot of drinking, as this is what British people do in the pub. And most of them are part-French here.
> 
> The story will have five chapters in all. I hope to have the next one up by the New Year.

Highbury in January is cold, miserable, and full of hipsters. Granted, the hipsters are there all year around, but the cold weather does not improve them, merely offers them opportunities for ironic knitwear. Grantaire is fully aware that his knitted hat makes him look like an idiot, but it is the only thing that keeps his ears warm and he’s too old to worry about looking cool. Certainly old enough to judge people with _snoods_.

Grantaire has a philosophical disagreement with the concept of Highbury, since it is full of the kind of posh tall people whose genetics demonstrate that they have been well-fed for centuries. Also, there are beards. In the two hundred meters between the station and the pub, Grantaire has seen eleven young men with the same inch-long beard. He tends to be lazy about shaving, but that makes him want to pluck and pumice every bit of hair off his face. Perhaps he can convince Enjolras that make-up would be an appropriate form of cultural resistance in this milieu. Courfeyrac, at least, is always up for some eyeliner.

Actually, most members of their group are usually up for some eyeliner. Even Feuilly and Bahorel, who hadn’t gone to a public school, picked up the habit at Oxford. Grantaire blames Cosette, and the way she persuaded everyone that their play about revolutionary France required period-appropriate cosmetics. Enjolras with painted eyes and rouge in his cheeks had been a sight to behold. Grantaire had spent six weeks wanting to tear his neck-cloth open with his teeth.

At least it wasn’t a snood. Grantaire grits his teeth against both current weather and ancient aggravation, and pulls the pub door open.

The first thing he sees is Eponine at the bar, making a dubious face at the wine list. The cold begins to seep out of his shoulders.

“Red or white?”

She gives him half a glance, then turns around to look at him properly. Grantaire tries to grin rather than grimace, but it has been a long day and winter doesn’t agree with him.

“Red, I think,” she says after a while. Grantaire nods. Red is proper for winter, will keep him warm and lively for a few hours.

“French?”

“Italian.”

They both roll their eyes, but what can you do, _hipsters._

“You can take these to the table,” Eponine declares, handing him two packets of peanuts. “I’ll bring the wine and glasses. The first bottle is on me.”

Grantaire takes the packets. He can hear voices from their usual place at the corner, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Feuilly, probably Combeferre. He occupies himself with the nutritional information; apparently salted peanuts are high in calories. Probably best not to share this with Eponine.

His friends are in the middle of an argument about benefits and immigration, and Grantaire slides next to Combeferre with a vague smile and a wave at everybody. He gets a few nods in return, and a complicated shoulder movement from Bahorel inquiring after his drink, which he returns with a head-twist towards Eponine.

“If they were just interested in creating a fairer system, or a system with less potential for abuse, this is not what they would be doing. This is just to show that they too don’t like foreigners – basically, that anti-EU voters are also welcome in the Labour Party. And what that will do…”

Courfeyrac interjects, “They won’t actually do it, it would make business untenable and even Labour listens to big business…”

“What it would do,” Feuilly continues undisturbed, “is create a society with two classes of inhabitants: those with rights in our society, and those without. They’re doing this with the NHS, and with employment, that’s going to affect everyone.”

Eponine sits down next to him, puts down two glasses, and hands the wine bottle to Grantaire. He pours. “And what it will do in the first instance is make sure that no EU resident applies for unemployment benefits, in case they get asked to leave.”

Feuilly nods, and starts talking about the specific bias against the Polish community, but Grantaire’s attention wavers, as it invariably does, to the person sitting next to Feuilly. 

Enjolras is staring morosely into his stout. He is a slow drinker, rarely has more than one pint – Grantaire has never had hopes of seeing him unbend through alcohol. He looks pale and tired, the few wrinkles marring his perfect face more pronounced. Yet Grantaire notes that he is paler still where his throat meets the dark burgundy of his jumper, with no white collar mediating the contrast. His fingers are pale and long against his glass, and gripping it tightly. Anger, then, as well as tiredness. By habit Grantaire ends his tour of appreciation ( _his blazon_ , Jehan says in his head, and Grantaire knows himself to be reverent enough that the word fits) with a look on Enjolras’s face, and finds the object of his gaze looking back.

Grantaire twists his mouth and raises his glass, because what else is there to do. And usually, that’s enough to make Enjolras turn away, with a slant to _his_ mouth that Grantaire can’t help but watch, even though he knows it is there to disapprove of him. But today Enjolras keeps looking, neither returning Grantaire’s smirk nor frowning at him. The wine is suddenly dry in his mouth, and Grantaire drinks again. He doesn’t try to look away.

Combeferre nudges him. 

“Please don’t, tonight. He’s had to deal with the Minister’s latest blunder all day, requests for clarification from the press as well as his boss trying and failing to explain himself, and if you mention it again it is possible his teeth will fall off from all the grinding. For the sake of my nerves, Grantaire, please don’t.”

It is rare for Combeferre to plead so plainly; an exasperated look or a shake of the head is usually enough when Grantaire argues with Enjolras. Grantaire frowns at his glass, then twists to look at Combeferre. There is an exhausted stillness in his shoulders and his hands are tense in his lap. A long day for him as well, then, and not yet over. 

Grantaire tilts his head, and makes a show of pondering.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that to happen. I don’t think he’d be as effective without his teeth – the revolution needs that face to remain charming.”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow, ostensibly in warning, but there is amusement lurking in there somewhere. Enjolras, apparently overhearing, or perhaps alerted by Grantaire’s deliberately obnoxious voice, scowls and downs half his pint in one go, putting it down with a smack. Grantaire watches his throat as he swallows, knows that he is seen watching.

“Anyway,” Combeferre continues, ignoring their display, “Courfeyrac already tried playing the devil’s advocate”, Grantaire rolls his eyes; that never works with Enjolras, he will just take you seriously and then take you apart inch by inch. Which is not to say Grantaire doesn’t do that, but it is not in order to win the argument, “and almost got his drink thrown in his face.”

“But if he doesn’t want to fight with me, why is he looking at me? I can see he’s tired, but I am hardly the most restful object for him to lay his eyes on. Surely your calm face would be more appropriate?”

Combeferre sighs. He seems to be doing a lot of that lately. Winter makes them all cranky. “He doesn’t look at you only to fight with you, Grantaire. You should consider the possibility that he doesn’t think of you as an enemy. In fact, it would save us all a lot of trouble if…”

“While I’m always happy to provide you with entertainment, Combeferre, it would be better manners to laugh at me when I’m not sitting in front of you.” Enjolras’s voice is low and rough, the precision of his wording hinting at annoyance. Grantaire hears his blood start to hum in his ears. Perhaps they will have a fight after all. 

Enjolras turns to glare at him. “Grantaire. I hope you’ve prepared for tonight. No doubt we will have need of your ‘specialist’ knowledge.”

Next to him, Eponine snorts, and Grantaire is absolutely not regretting the note they left in the pub quiz suggestion-box last month. He takes another sip of his wine before answering.

“I’ve been brushing up on pop songs involving royalty. I think Bahorel was in charge of films about kings and queens? And Feuilly about European monarchs, although I doubt we’ll be called upon to consider those. What aspect did you choose in the end?”

“Decapitations,” says Enjolras succinctly, but with some pleasure.

A loud static noise signals the microphone being turned on.

“Hello, and welcome to the Cock and Fox Friday night pub quiz! Tonight’s theme is Royals (Royals), and the prize, as always, is a gallon of beer. Good luck!”

 

* 

Les Amis de la Révolution had started out at the French society at Oxford. Grantaire, two weeks in the city and already missing Sheffield and his mother, had seen the advertisement for the first social event, which doubled as a French wine tasting, and promptly joined. He’d been on his second glass of something called _La Couronne des Plantagenets_ (a wine he still remembers fondly, and still buys when it’s available at his local Sainsbury’s) when he’d overheard Enjolras hissing in French at Combeferre; furious about the plans for celebrating Louis XIII’s 400th birthday (even though the proposed event was more likely to have been caused by a desire to wear fancy clothes and drink a lot of booze than any monarchist leanings) and absolutely determined to see them cancelled. Three weeks later, a campaign of charm (Courfeyrac), a series of long and footnoted arguments (Enjolras) and blackmail (Combeferre) had seen the current chair of the society decide to give up his position, and the name was changed to the French Revolution Society. 

To Grantaire’s distress, there were no more wine tastings that year, but at least Courfeyrac had insisted on (and gained society-wide support for, barring one) a bi-annual cheese festival, which involved local wines. In the second year, they even organised a cheese- and wine-sourcing trip to Languedoc, where Grantaire had the pleasure of seeing Enjolras stomp angrily on grapes in a vat arranged for tourists. There had been a bet with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, details of which were never divulged, and Eponine and Feuilly had teamed up to argue that their support for historically oppressed workers required them to demonstrate a willingness to share their work. Grantaire still has the 2002 French Society charity calendar, with its cover of a wine-soaked and glaring Enjolras.

Cosette and Marius had joined in the third year, causing several minor revolutions. Cosette had challenged Enjolras for the presidency, and ended up taking Combeferre’s post as the treasurer when he retired, demonstrating that she could match Enjolras in blood-thirsty efficiency while also being somehow more terrifying with her occasional bouts of irresistible sweetness. Eponine, even while recovering from her regrettable affliction for Marius, had nodded respectfully at Cosette’s mixture of stubborn logic and carefully-orchestrated charm. “A necessary tactic,” she said, “for a young woman with that face and that colouring.” Then glared Grantaire down when he tried to point out the effects of Enjolras’s golden curls and piercing blue eyes.

Marius, in turn, had become the unknowing focus of a small side group dedicated to surviving the apparently inexplicable but nevertheless unavoidable broken hearts which his presence seemed to inspire. Courfeyrac made a humorous website, Jehan wrote a long poem in four languages which served as an ironic commentary on the vagaries of love, and Eponine took up judo and was aggressively (and sometimes angrily) friendly at Cosette. Why Marius, who was offensively posh as well as naïve and awkward and not too clever, should inspire such devotion was a mystery to all, including the members themselves. There was even a drinking game for solving, or perhaps celebrating, this puzzle.

That was ten years ago. When Grantaire tries to explain to other people that he goes to a weekly pub quiz with friends he met at university, he tends to get baffled responses; he’s aware it looks weird from the outside. He could say that they all bonded by being part-French or almost-French or pro-French at an aggressively British university (which is true), or that he’s there for the quiz, since his team comes second every time and he’s now too invested to stop going (also true), or that he doesn’t really want to be there, but is unable to stop (mostly true).

He has stopped trying to make sense of it. He knows how much Eponine would make him regret it if he failed to show up, for one, and the sad emails from Jehan and Courfeyrac wouldn’t bear thinking about. He also knows that he would never stop going, because he tried to wrench himself away once and it didn’t stick; there is no hope for him now. 

Grantaire drinks his Italian wine and tries not to fall asleep. Marius and Cosette arrive late, bringing more drinks and forcing everyone to squeeze a little tighter together. He is warm between Eponine and Combeferre, and growing warmer from the wine. 

Bahorel kicks him under the table.

“Who are the third most famous band with the word ‘Queen’ in their name?”

Right. Queen is obviously the first. Grantaire looks around, drums his fingers on the table, then mouths _Queens of the Stone Age_ at Bahorel, who writes it down. The third, though? It’s a good question. Combeferre makes a contented noise next to him, as if agreeing.

“And now, our final question: what was the relationship between Elizabeth I and James I? Bonus points if you can draw a complete family tree.”

Courfeyrac, who is in charge of their answers, huffs out a laugh and hands the paper over to Grantaire. He takes a long sip of his wine, winks at Enjolras who is already frowning, and begins to draw lines. Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, married. One line to their son Henry VIII, another to their daughter Margaret Tudor. A line to from Henry VIII to his daughter Elizabeth I. Margaret Tudor married to James IV of Scotland, a line to denote their son James V, another for his daughter Mary Queen of Scots, yet another for her son, James I and VI of Scotland. A second line from Margaret Tudor: her marriage to Archibald Douglas, their daughter Margaret Lennox, her son Lord Darnley, his marriage to Mary Queen of Scots. Grantaire adds Mary Guise next to James V, Matthew Lennox next to Margaret Douglas, and Anne Boleyn next to Henry VIII. He finishes with a little red flower next to her name, and hands the paper back to Courfeyrac.

Enjolras looks like he’s about to start grinding his teeth again.

“Please tell me that you spent last night learning this from Wikipedia, that this isn’t all something you already knew?” Eponine’s face isn’t so much concerned as despairing. Grantaire shakes his head, and pitches his voice to carry.

“The only royals I look for on Wikipedia are modern ones, to find my future spouse.”

Courfeyrac chokes on his drink. Eponine makes a face. “I don’t think you’d be convincing as a virgin bride. Not to mention that half-French is still too damn French.”

“For this country, sure, but they wouldn’t mind it so much elsewhere. Princess Madeleine of Sweden is quite lovely, for one. As is Prince Carl-Philip.”

“Princess Madeleine is married, and has a child. Prince Carl-Philip is dating a model, which I’m afraid makes him unlikely to fall for your charms. Even if he was that way inclined, and there is no evidence that he is.”

A somewhat horrified silence falls, and everyone turns to look at Enjolras. When Combeferre finally speaks, his voice is struggling between mirth and dread. 

“We are not planning to stage an anti-monarchical coup in Sweden, are we, Enjolras? It’s been a long time since I checked the agenda page of Les Amis, but I don’t think that’s on the list. Also, I think they have a constitutional monarchy.”

Enjolras’s nostrils flare, and he tilts his head in what Grantaire likes to call (sometimes out loud) his declamatory pose.

“No, I’m aware. I’m also aware that the Swedish educational system has recently changed from primarily government-led schools to ‘free schools’’, the quotation marks heavily implied by his withering voice, “and consequently, may be useful for the innovations being wrought here.”

Eponine mouths “wrought” and Grantaire shrugs, half rolling his eyes and half enthralled because what kind of a thinking process leads a person to say “wrought”? Especially while drinking and complaining about his boss.

“And this led you to investigate the Swedish royal family?” Combeferre inquires, now relaxed into amusement; apparently an actual coup had not been out of the realm of possibility. Enjolras, noticing this, is unimpressed.

“I was given to understand that one of our lot had spoken to one of their lot at somebody’s wedding, and that there was a plan to arrange a tour of Swedish schools for the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge during their visit. The Minister asked me to prepare some preliminary information. I didn’t realise at the time that Grantaire was planning to marry one of them.”

Now the glare is back to him, and even with that hint of mockery, it is glorious. Grantaire gives him a beatific smile, and licks wine off his glass.

“What can I say, I have a weakness for blonde people. And they do all look very tall and athletic. Energetic, if you like.”

“Nevertheless, I fear the weather would disagree with you. You complain enough about the winter in London, so I don’t think you’d like it there.”

Combeferre interjects. “They do have indoor heating. Under the floor heating, even.”

Enjolras gives him a look which suggests that the thermostat of their flat is going to be turned down tonight. Grantaire leans forward, drawing his attention back. “I wouldn’t mind. I would just lie in bed all day. I mean, what else could I do – it’s not like they’d let me speak at things.”

“Not more than once, at least,” Eponine nods.

Bahorel coughs. “Ahem, not that we aren’t happy for Grantaire’s upcoming nuptials, but does anyone have any idea which three women have played La Reine Margot? We’ve got Isabelle Adjani, but any ideas on the other two?”

“Jeanne Moreau,” Eponine and Combeferre whisper in unison, then lean over Grantaire to confer. He’s close to resting his forehead on the table, and does so when Eponine places her elbows on his back, pushing him down.

Enjolras is still watching him. Grantaire swallows, and thinks of something to say. Being the focus of Enjolras’s attention is both enthralling and petrifying – he knows how to deal with fury, or with argument, but silence troubles him. He doesn’t want to figure out what Enjolras sees when he looks at him – Grantaire has got better at giving up toxic habits – but the thought of what it might be can still flay him. Best to steer it off, with inane chatter if nothing else.

“Will you have to go with them to Sweden?”

Enjolras blinks. “No, the Minister wants to go himself, for the photo ops. It’s not a big enough of a deal for them to refuse.”

“That’s a shame. It would have been nice to get away for a bit, even if it is for work. A break from the routine would be good for you.”

Enjolras grimaces the way he does when he acknowledges that you’re right, but he doesn’t like it. “I’m sure it would have been terrible, but seeing the schools in action could have been interesting. At least the information we’d have got would have been reliable. And I would have asked the right questions. The Minister won’t.”

It’s a disturbingly pleasant and calm discussion, and Grantaire is almost relieved when Eponine removes her elbows from his back, and Combeferre helps to pull him up and off the table. Apparently they have finished communing over French films stars, or whatever it was that made Eponine prepared to climb over him to talk to Combeferre (Grantaire has learned not to ask about it, because that way lies punishing drinking games followed by an early morning trip to the gym – Eponine knows how to make him suffer, and will if he makes her talk about feelings.). He rolls his shoulders, and pours out the last of the wine while Courfeyrac goes to hand off their answers. 

Bahorel leans over Feuilly to nudge Enjolras. “After party at your place?” 

“Actually, we were thinking that it might nice to have an early night for once, it’s been a long week for everyone and we should…”

“We were thinking no such thing,” interrupts Combeferre. “I have a new cheese, and Enjolras’s grandmother has sent us another crate of wine.”

“Excellent!” Bahorel gives Enjolras another hefty nudge, and looks pleased with the glare he receives in return. “I do love your grandmother.”

They all love Enjolras’s grandmother. Nobody has actually met her, of course, but she periodically sends him boxes of Aquitanian wine in the hopes that he will learn to ‘drink like a Frenchman’. Grantaire likes to raise a glass in her honour whenever Combeferre opens one of them. He, at least, is drinking like a Frenchman. 

The quiz-master clears his throat, and begins to read out team names. They wait, through Matt’s Last Pint and Crimea River and the Swedish Cottage Mafia. Some people really shouldn’t be allowed to name anything.

“And in second place, Les Amis de la Révolution, still with the French spelling, I see.”

“Because the revolution is French,” they all shout in unison.

The quiz-master groans. “That still doesn’t make any sense!” 

“That’s because you’re not French,” Eponine smiles sweetly at him. He swallows, and wisely declines from further comment.

For some, coming second every time would be a discouraging failure; for Les Amis de la Révolution, it is a challenge, and one which allows them to exercise all the energy they once used for revolutionary activism. They have allocated tasks for revision, sent out every week by Combeferre, based on research specialisms as well as interests. Grantaire tends to get questions about history, Eponine about literature, Feuilly about geography, and Bahorel about old school pop culture. Enjolras, he’d once been told by a very drunk Courfeyrac, gets whatever Combeferre can bear to listen him complain about for a week. Courfeyrac himself gets current pop culture, because he likes to pretend to be a hip young person.

They are none of them that young anymore, but nobody (other than Enjolras, and he was like that while they were actually young) wants to admit that they’re too old to stay up all night drinking and listening to mid-nineties rock music. Still, it’s good that Enjolras’s flat is not far from the pub. By the time Grantaire hangs his coat up, Combeferre is already setting out the cheese, and Courfeyrac has claimed the corkscrew and is pretending to be a waiter. Mostly this takes the form of bowing over Cosette’s hand as she laughs at him and Marius grows increasingly red. In about 30 seconds, Eponine is going to grab the bottle and threaten him with something creative.

Having already seen that display many times, Grantaire finds his way to the kitchen to get a glass of water. He knows how to pace his drinking. Or rather, how to have more of it without making himself sick.

He enters the room to see Enjolras, his back to Grantaire, picking up wine glasses from the top shelf. Standing on his toes, hip set against the counter to give him balance, one arm reaching for the glasses at the back of the shelf, with a pale streak of dimpled back visible where his shirt has pulled up. When Grantaire knocks against the door, Enjolras turns to face him; pivoting on one foot, three glasses held in one elegant hand. His shirt is still rucked up and there are muscles. It really isn’t fair, Grantaire thinks somewhat hysterically, for a thirty-one-year-old man with a desk job to have those abs. How does he have the time to make them? Does he wake up early to get some crunches in before work? 

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. Grantaire really hopes he didn’t say that out loud.

“I would like a glass of water,” he says. He clasps his hands behind his back to keep them from fluttering at his sides. They tend to be eloquent when he speaks, and it’s really best that he doesn’t speak now.

“Indeed.” Enjolras continues to stare at him for another moment, then nods. “Well, you know where the glasses are.”

He walks out close enough that Grantaire can smell his cologne, feel the air move on his arms where they almost touch. Enjolras is careful, though; they do not touch. Grantaire remains still until he’s gone, then he walks over to the sideboard and buries his head in his arms.

It has been ten years. Thirteen, if you count from the first impassioned speech at the French society meeting. Grantaire knows that he didn’t feel the earth move under him then, had no indication that this man, this boy having a ridiculous argument about the ethics of event planning, would cause such a tectonic shift in his life. He remembers the prickly pleasure of realising what it meant when he couldn’t look away, when every word from Enjolras’s mouth set his skin on fire. He remembers thinking _that, for me, that is it._

He’d gone to meetings, participated in the ‘strategic acts of revolution’ which the society promoted (which, for some reason to do with university politics, included drinking the OUU president under the table with Courfeyrac), and argued with Enjolras about Marxism, about platonism and utilitarianism and gender politics. The problem wasn’t that they disagreed; Enjolras liked arguments, and liked having them with people. He just didn’t like Grantaire. Enjolras has little patience for people he doesn’t respect, and he doesn’t shy away from showing it. There is an honesty in that which Grantaire loves. Even if it makes it easy to hate him sometimes.

 _Chacun a son merde._ Grantaire had argued more, drank more, pulled more, and made sure to arrive early for every meeting so that he could heckle Enjolras from the front row.

After Oxford he’d thought, _fuck this,_ and moved to Glasgow to do an MA in Art History. Being away had helped, and the only person who’d come with him had been Eponine who, for similar reasons, didn’t want to talk about their friends in the south. He’d finished his degree, got a shitty admin job, and shared a flat with Eponine while she worked on a PhD in Scottish literature. He had a nice boring life where he went to the pub, went to art shows to argue with hipsters, sometimes shagged strangers in clubs, and never talked about politics with anyone. He exchanged occasional emails with Jehan and Bahorel, but there had been no contact with the London Amis. Courfeyrac sent periodic group emails, ostensibly about what was going on in his life and what he’d seen on TV that week, but it was mostly an excuse for everyone to argue about current events and Steven Moffat through reply-to-all. Grantaire never replied, although he did read. 

He’d moved to London for work, a slightly less shitty job at the National Gallery, partly acquired through his ability to talk about the historical developments in early modern European art, but mostly through the pedigree of his actually irrelevant Oxford degree. He hadn’t planned to get involved again – by this point only Eponine and Feuilly were still up north, and while he was happy for everyone who’d found a good life in London, he was also quite happy to stay away from them for the sake of his sanity.

He’d said this to Eponine when he was leaving Glasgow, but she’d given him an unimpressed look and Combeferre’s email address. He had taken it and not asked why she had it (there’s a list of things one ought not ask about with Eponine; the Thing with Combeferre is right below the Thing with Marius), but without any intention of using it. Unfortunately, she had also given his email to Combeferre _and_ Courfeyrac, with apparently a stern note not to let him drink alone. And while he might ignore the subsequent invitations to the pub, or to various gatherings at Combeferre and Enjolras’s flat, a chance to meet up with Jehan, back from three years in Italy, was impossible to miss. Nobody’s told him that Jehan’s place was actually Courfeyrac’s place, on whose couch he was sleeping, nor that everybody else would be there. He’d knocked on the door, found Bahorel at the other side, been promptly placed in a headlock, and never allowed to leave. Then Eponine had got a post-doc at UCL, and he’d stopped pretending that he wasn’t a Friend of the Revolution anymore.

So he goes boxing with Bahorel on Tuesdays, drinks in posh bars with Jehan and Courfeyrac, and lives half a mile from Eponine in Cricklewood. She drags him swimming on weekends and makes him cook for her when he’s too tired to do it for himself. And on Friday nights, he goes to the pub quiz at the Cock and Fox, and to Enjolras and Combeferre’s for the after party.

It’s not so bad now; they are adults and behave mostly like adults with each other. Enjolras treats him as a member of the group around which he has built his life, and if Grantaire’s contributions are not always welcomed with as much jubilant cheer as some of the others, there is no question of asking him to leave. They are civil, friendly. There is small talk, and conversations about impersonal topics which border on earnest. Just because Grantaire disagrees with him about human beings being incompetent dicks (and really, Enjolras works for the Ministry of Education, how can he not see this?), doesn’t mean that he can’t have extensive conversations about effecting cultural change through science fiction. 

But sometimes, when he’s not prepared for it, he is hit by a wave of longing to just grab Enjolras and clutch him to his heart, like one of Plato’s four-legged humans united after a lifetime of separation, because _this is it, this is him, for me._ It’s an inelegant wish, barely articulate in his brain, but he can’t help it, has only learned to breathe through it until it passes, and remove himself. 

Grantaire stands up, takes a glass from the drying rack, fills it with water, and drinks. He’s on his second glass when Eponine comes to find him.

“You want to go home?” Her voice is kind in ways it rarely is, so he must look as terrible as he feels. He could go home. They could get the tube on time, and wake up in their own beds instead of Combeferre’s futon for once. He might have a not-so-bad hangover tomorrow.

He’s not going to go, though. Grantaire fills his glass again, and turns around. “And miss out on the cheese? Surely not. Combeferre would be so upset.”

She hits him in the arm and in return he offers her his, and leads her to the living room. He is still functional, at least, and Combeferre does bring in some exciting cheeses.

The living room of the flat used to be a drawing room in a Georgian house, all high ceilings and polished wooden floors, with windows facing the east. During Enjolras’s residency it has been fitted with double-glazing and low-energy radiators as well as two sofas, six bookcases, and a futon. The dining table, which looks like it could host a dinner party for twelve, is covered in papers and laptops, with three cleared working spaces. Grantaire knows that Combeferre’s keeps his work and his desk is in his bedroom so these are all for Enjolras. There are also three Macbooks, but one of them seems to be serving as a paperweight. Enjolras is sitting on one of the desk-chairs by the table, talking to Cosette and Marius, but fondling his papers in a distracted manner.

At the other end of the room, Jehan is squeezed next to Courfeyrac on the futon. Grantaire goes and squeezes himself beside Jehan, who automatically wraps an arm around his shoulder.

“What are we talking about?” 

“Provençal poetry,” says Jehan. “Have you read any?”

Courfeyrac hands him a glass of red, and the bottle for his inspection; Grantaire likes to know what he’s drinking. Marcillac, nice and peppery. Grantaire relaxes comfortably into Jehan’s arm, and takes a sip.

“Of course. Who hasn’t?” 

“ _In_ Provençal?” Courfeyrac’s voice is dubious.

“Of course.”

“You’re lying.” Jehan laughs, while Courfeyrac’s face is filled with theatrical outrage, a mask of tragedy for comic effect. Or perhaps a mask of comedy aiming to hide a tragedy; Grantaire knows that Courfeyrac suffers from a sad inability to learn languages. And that Jehan knows seven.

“Why would you think I’m lying? I could have hidden knowledge. I spent eight years in Glasgow, doing all sorts of things. I could have learned Provençal.”

“If you’re going to make a pun about being a cunning linguist, please don’t…” Jehan makes a face at him, and Grantaire makes a face in return. As if he’d be so unimaginative.

Courfeyrac, however, looks thoughtful. 

“I don’t believe that you know Provençal. If you did, see, Jehan would have been so excited about it that he would have told everyone he met. He wouldn’t have been able to help himself – the chance to talk about linguistic developments and comparative traditions and whatever the fuck with someone. You would have been forcibly relocated to our living room and not allowed to leave.”

“Again,” interjects Grantaire, mostly for effect, but also because the headlock had hurt.

“Yes, again. And therefore, if you knew Provençal, I would know about it.”

Jehan considers this. “He’s got you there, I’m afraid. I would have been very excited.”

Grantaire looks from one to the other, and sighs. “Fine. I do not read Provençal. I do know a bit of Catalan, though. My mother has family in Barcelona and I know that there are cousins somewhere who speak the language. I spent a few weeks with them once and they taught me how to curse the Spanish.”

Jehan frowns at this, then nods, and Courfeyrac grows relaxed again. From there the conversation moves on to regional languages (Jehan is planning a research trip to Barcelona, and wants to study Catalan while he’s there), and then walking holidays (Courfeyrac wants to go hiking in the Pyrenees), and eventually, their wine-sourcing trip in 2002. Courfeyrac still refuses to disclose what kind of argument (or blackmail) persuaded Enjolras to enter the vat of grapes, but Grantaire feels he is getting closer to succumbing. Courfeyrac does enjoy gossip; he just needs to find the right kind of leverage. He is debating whether to share the one about Cosette’s Christmas work party, when Bahorel comes to join them, sitting himself on the floor and hugging their legs. Jehan begins to stroke his fingers through Bahorel’s hair, tugging occasionally and making Bahorel rub his face against Jehan’s knee. Grantaire finds his foot taken, enfolded in Bahorel’s large hands, and subjected to a frighteningly skilled foot-massage.

This is how Eponine discovers them half an hour later.

“Why do you all look so disgustingly lazy and pleased with yourselves? Grantaire is clutching that futon like he’s a sloth about to fall off, and Courfeyrac looks like a sultan who is overseeing his favourite concubine giving the second favourite a head-rub.”

Courfeyrac’s bursts out laughing. Jehan huffs on with amused exasperation as he is pulled across Courfeyrac’s lap, and Bahorel, leering benevolently at everyone, continues to stroke Grantaire’s foot. Grantaire loves his friends. His friends are ridiculous.

“And what am I, the third concubine? I feel I ought to feel slighted at that; I bet I could give at least Bahorel a run for his money.”

Eponine gives him a considering look. “I’m sure you’d make any man a fine mistress, but I wouldn’t let you loose in a harem. You’d incite a riot just for fun, then watch it unfold from the sultan’s bed.”

“That sounds very active, are you sure you aren’t thinking of Enjolras? He’s more likely to start a revolution, surely. Even if forced to undergo the indignity of serving as an odalisque. Especially then.”

An exasperated cough from behind the futon alerts Grantaire to Enjolras’s presence. And his impeccable timing.

“Should I ask what indignity you’ve placed me in this time?”

Enjolras, moving to stand next to Eponine with Combeferre in tow, sounds cool and bored, but there is a hint of anticipation in his voice, which Grantaire recognises. Enjolras is ready to do battle and willing to seek out an argument if one is not granted him. Grantaire is generally happy to assist with this. He sits up straight, then makes a show of leaning back against Jehan with exaggerated indolence. Enjolras narrows his eyes.

Grantaire is about to give him his filthiest smirk, when Eponine steps in, turning to Enjolras with an evil smile.

“I was pointing out what a tableau of decadence they make, Courfeyrac like a sultan overseeing his fiefdom,” Courfeyrac leers on cue, “with Jehan and Bahorel the favoured concubines, and Grantaire complaining because he wasn’t allowed to join in. I don’t think he’d do well in a harem, though. What about you?”

Eponine has a talent for finding an argument in everything, for creating erudite and logically flawless discussions from a vast range of unexpected topics. It makes her a great scholar and unbeatable in debate. 

Enjolras, who has few opportunities to debate with clever people in his day job, tends to take it as a challenge. His chin takes on a combative stance. “ I imagine he would enjoy the opportunity to lay in bed all day.”

Grantaire smirks. “Your imagination is sadly lacking, then. There’s a lot more I could do on a bed, all day long.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow, as if daring him to extrapolate. “I’m afraid my imagination is not so concerned with how you would fare as an odalisque.” 

Grantaire nods, and adds a note of condescension to his voice: a patient teacher mildly disappointed with an otherwise bright pupil.

“And now that the idea has been brought to your attention…? It is not a difficult thought surely; I could place everyone in our group in their appropriately allocated roles. You, for example, would be the reluctant maiden, prepared to die rather than surrender your virtue.”

Eponine interjects, gleefully suggestive. “And yet, succumb at the first touch of the wicked, wicked, no good very bad Sultan?”

Somewhere at the back, Grantaire hears Combeferre sigh, but he doesn’t look away from Enjolras, who is growing more beautifully furious under his eyes. He winks.

“Precisely. For when does the maiden not? All laws of narrative demand it.”

Enjolras looks at him, and looks at him, and finally twists his mouth to a calmly superior smirk. _Ooh,_ exhales Grantaire’s hindbrain, _this is going to be good._

The rest of Grantaire is thinking _oh shit._

“Leaving aside the question of my maidenly virtue – although do link me to the related literature, Eponine, I’m sure it’s _fascinating_ – I don’t think Grantaire would be a very satisfying as an odalisque.”

And there it is, cruel and suggestive, and Grantaire really hates the feel of hot shame in his belly caused by Enjolras naming him _unsatisfying._ Then Enjolras smiles, a proper, happy smile, and he realises that there is more, and worse, to come.

And yet, he must ask. He knows his cue. “Why not?”

Enjolras’s smiles grow smug, and smugly cold. Sometimes Grantaire hates his face. 

“I doubt you would be sufficiently submissive.”

There is a world of things he could say to that, but he’s not going to. For the sake of his own sanity, as well as that of his friends. And because Enjolras might respond, and there are some things he does not want to hear.

“Well,” he says, and takes a slow sip of his wine. Enjolras watches him drink, and Grantaire makes a show of tapping his mouth with his fingers. He takes another drink, and can’t help himself from making it slow, can’t look away as Enjolras looks at his mouth. His hands, Grantaire notes, are clasped behind his back, his lips pressed into a tight line. 

“How much submission would you say is enough, though?” 

Bahorel’s interruption, voiced in mild inquiry, breaks the tension: Courfeyrac cracks up again, Jehan tilts his head as if to consider the question, and Enjolras looks away. Grantaire takes a deep breath and stares at the floor. 

“Well, this got very kinky very suddenly.” Eponine sounds relieved, but also annoyed. Grantaire fears there will be early-morning swimming in his future.

“What did?” Cosette, walking in with hat in hand, gives them all a scolding look. “I thought we were heading out, but if you’re going to have a conversation about kink, I’ll take my coat off again.”

“Tempting as that is, I’d better get going as well.” Bahorel levers himself off the floor using Grantaire and Jehan for support, his hands unwaveringly finding the most painful points to press. Grantaire tries to kick him, but Bahorel is nimble for a man his size. “But let’s keep that thought in mind for next time.”

“Or not,” suggests Eponine, and shakes her head. Probably at all of them. Grantaire kind of wants to hide his face in the futon.

People start to disperse; Courfeyrac goes to the hallway to call a taxi, and Cosette drags Bahorel to the door. Eponine drops herself on the armchair next to the futon, and begins to sort through the drinks trolley nearby. Grantaire finishes his glass, and makes grabby hands for a new bottle. Eponine rolls her eyes, and hands him one.

Another Marcillac, but with a different name. Four glasses present themselves, and Grantaire pours; a civilised third, in consideration of the late hour and the amount they’ve already had. Jehan takes one, Eponine another, and Combeferre hands one to Enjolras, who makes a comical face.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Just the one, and then you can tell your _grandmère_ that you’ve enjoyed the wine she sent you.”

“And drank it like a Frenchman,” Eponine interjects.

“And drank it like a Frenchman,” confirms Combeferre.

Enjolras huffs, but raises his glass. He scowls a little as he drinks, but grows thoughtful with the taste. 

Realising that he’s forgotten to pour himself a glass, Grantaire busies himself with the bottle. He’s suddenly very tired.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do about the kerfuffle with “educational standards”?”

Enjolras, paused in mid-drink, turns to Eponine.

“I have some ideas.”

“And?”

“They are not final yet. You’ll see it when it’s done.”

Eponine hmms. “It would be too easy, I suppose, to simply point out the flaws in the Minister’s argument. From either a historiographical or pedagogic perspective. And doing that is not going to add anything new to the conversation, anyway, since everybody else is already on it. You’re going to need something else.”

“I take it you have some ideas?” Enjolras’s voice is not terribly welcoming. Collaboration is not a practice he tends to seek out; mostly, Grantaire suspects, because of how people are often in the wrong. This doesn’t apply to Les Amis, usually, but as far as he knows, no one has dared to suggest improvements to Enjolras’s blog before.

That said, Grantaire spends a large part of his Monday mornings emailing back and forth with Eponine about this week’s update, so it’s not unreasonable that she should offer. He’s mildly annoyed that he didn’t think of it first. 

“I came across something that might offer a useful analogy. Why don’t you email me tomorrow once you’ve got your basic ideas in order, and I can see if it would work? I’d also be happy to proofread the post for you. We don’t want a repeat of the discreted butler.”

Scowling, Enjolras puts his glass down where it sloshes on the table. Combeferre sighs and makes his way to the kitchen, presumably to find some kitchen roll.

“That was one time! And it was Word correcting me, anyway. You can’t say there have been further problems since then. I’m having it checked by two people.”

“Yes, Jehan, whom you ought to be paying for his time since that is actually his job…” 

“I don’t mind,” Jehan starts to argue, but stops when Eponine lays a hand on his arm. 

“…and Combeferre, whose care-taking duties seem to be endless. As it happens, proofreading is also part of my profession, and I won’t mind doing it along with a more general editorial service. I’ll even promise to be nicer than I am with my students – no sarcastic smiley faces for you.”

Combeferre comes back, armed with cleaning supplies. “I’m sure he could use a few sarcastic smiley faces. Nobody needs that many semi-colons in one paragraph.”

They watch as he rolls up his sleeves and begins to clean up the side-table, an eloquent demonstration of Eponine’s earlier point. Enjolras appears to think so too, since he sighs and takes the cloth from Combeferre. He is quick but not very efficient, and Grantaire is fairly certain that Combeferre will go over that same table tomorrow.

For now, he stands back and observes, crossing his arms. Grantaire turns to Eponine to see if she has noticed Combeferre’s forearms; she looks like she has. Grantaire has new-found respect for Combeferre’s moves.

He wonders what would happen if he enquired after Combeferre’s position in the harem. But no, it’s too easy – the head eunuch, who keeps everyone in line while mounting a long campaign to overturn the sultan and win the heart of his favourite concubine.

Still, it might be best not to bring up the harem again. Grantaire drinks his wine, and presses the glass to his cheek. It is pleasantly cool, which tells him that he is already overheated from the wine, and about to start declaring his love for the bottle – both signs that it’s best to stop.

“On that note, I’m off to bed.”

Enjolras doesn’t even wince as he drains the last of his glass. Grantaire watches his throat move, then looks down as Enjolras’s eyes cut to him. He drains his own drink. 

Eponine takes Enjolras’s glass and places it on top of the trolley; it takes his attention away from Grantaire, and he cannot decide whether to love her or hate her for it.

“Let me know about the blog. I couldn’t make it worse, at least.”

Enjolras flicks his eyebrows at her, but smiles. “I’ll keep that in mind. Goodnight, all.”

He nods at everyone and leaves, his hand resting briefly on the back of the futon as he goes, next to Eponine’s head. There is no contact, but Grantaire knows what it means; a sign of good will, a statement of continued friendship regardless of previous argument. He has watched Enjolras give out these almost-touches to Courfeyrac, to Cosette, to Bahorel and Bossuet on the occasions their good humour betrays their good manners. Combeferre is exempt, because his arguments with Enjolras are never public, but also because he is the only one who dares to initiate touching with him. 

Courfeyrac returns, waving his mobile at Jehan. “We’ve got a taxi in forty minutes. Still time for one more glass and some cheese.”

“Ooh, cheese,” says Eponine, and hoists herself up. Jehan and Courfeyrac follow in her wake – they know that no cheese will be left after Eponine.

Thus abandoned, Grantaire lets himself be swallowed by the cushions. He is thinking about properly hiding his face between the cracks, when another weight settles on the futon. Combeferre, looking tired but content, leans back against the cushions, his shoulders touching Grantaire’s.

Deciding not to think about why everyone wants to cuddle him today, Grantaire takes the offensive.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you always bring in the best cheese when it’s too late for us to catch the night bus. And if I’ve noticed, so has she.”

Combeferre smiles, light but satisfied. “I have nothing to hide.”

Grantaire looks at him. Colourless brown hair, steel-rimmed glasses, a white shirt and a green jumper. Combeferre has a face that looks unremarkable at first sight, but closer attention will reveal a perfectly straight nose and an elegantly curved jaw. There is a painting of a Renaissance scholar in the National Gallery with the same air of calm expectation, a man prepared to see through an extended plan to reach his goal. Grantaire likes spending time in that gallery. There is something soothing about the muted colours of the painting, the light of his candle and the scholar’s face as he goes through the alchemical symbols, confident that in the end, there will be gold.

“Let’s hope that works out for you.”

Combeferre turns to look at him. “Yes.”

Grantaire is too tired to make a pleasant face when that look becomes thoughtful.

“You know, he’s not…”

“Please don’t.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

Grantaire sighs. “I know who it’s about, and therefore I know I don’t want to hear it.”

A crease is starting to form between Combeferre’s eyebrows. “You both have a remarkable talent for misunderstanding each other. It would be funny if it wasn’t so depressing.”

The thought of his friends laughing at him – but no, his friends aren’t that cruel, certainly not about things like this. Grantaire has no illusions about his feelings being a secret (in their scope, perhaps, but not in content), but he really hopes that they are sufficiently old news not to provide much gossip these days. At least they generally have the courtesy not to discuss them with him. He shrugs.

“We get on well enough. As well as we can.”

Combeferre tilts his head, frowning. “I’m not sure that’s true. But anyway, I wanted to talk to you about something else. There is a thing at work next week – we’ve got a new exhibition starting soon and there’s a party for all the Wellcome Trust staff, and their friends and family, on Tuesday. You should come. Joly and Musischetta can’t make it, but everyone else has promised to attend. There’s a free bar.”

“The key to my heart.”

“Not just yours, I think.”

“If it’s on a Tuesday, though; I’ve got a boxing thing with Bahorel.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem, Bahorel is coming afterwards, and the party should still be going at that point.”

It is clear that his attendance has been planned with some forethought, potential escape routes blocked, possible excuses rendered invalid. Combeferre doesn’t mention what Eponine would say if he backed out; he doesn’t have to. 

“Fine, I’ll do my best.” He could always acquire a sudden migraine just after the boxing match, but he’s got a bad feeling Bahorel would carry him along anyway.

“Excellent.” Combeferre claps him on the shoulder, and stands up, using Grantaire as a prop.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, why is everybody pretending I’m a rising platform today? Is there a sign on my face or something?”

Laughing at his aggravation, Combeferre touches his shoulder, lightly. “Perhaps we just want to wake you up a little. Don’t want you getting too lost inside your head.”

“Well!” There is nothing Grantaire can say to that, or rather, nothing he wants to say.

Combeferre nods, as if he had spoken. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Grantaire nods in return, and watches as Combeferre gives one last look at the group by the cheese-table, and then leaves. Well. There is still a third of the Marcillac left. He can think about that rather than other things.

*

Grantaire wakes to familiar kitchen noises: Combeferre stirring his teaspoon repeatedly, too sleepy to realise when the sugar has dissolved, and Eponine hissing at the espresso maker which is beginning to hiss back. It’s not clear whether she does this to encourage it to readiness more quickly; he has never dared to ask. But if there’s coffee being made, he’s going to have to get up soon. 

“What time is it?”

Eponine removes the coffee-maker from the stove and turns to face him. She looks disgustingly awake, and not nearly as filthy as a woman who slept in her make up should.

“It’s eight, the tube is running, we should get going soon.”

Grantaire closes his eyes for a moment – oh blessed sleep – and turns to lie on his back, waving a hand at her.

“Ok. I’m awake. I’ll get up.” 

The shuffling noise of slippers on carpet heralds the arrival of Combeferre, who reaches the armchair with only one encounter with the coffee table.

“You know, you don’t actually have to run off so early. I’d be happy to make you a proper breakfast. And it’s getting sort of painful watching Grantaire try to force himself awake.”

Grantaire flaps a hand in his direction; Combeferre is a true friend. Sleep is good.

“You’re barely awake yourself.”

Joining Grantaire on the futon, Eponine tries to sit on his arm. “You know we’re here often enough that we can sort ourselves out in the kitchen. There’s no need for you to get up.”

Sounds of tea being sipped, and the hiss of hot drink meeting delicate mouth. “But it would be un-gentlemanly not to see to our guests.”

It is true that Combeferre turns into a Victorian gentleman in the mornings, stripes pyjamas and embroidered dressing gown (Grantaire suspects this was a joke gift from Courfeyrac, but Combeferre seems to have taken to it), not quite awake to think clearly about human communication and so reverting to excess hospitality.

He also looks kind of adorable, but Grantaire feels it would be inappropriate to say that. He opens his eyes just in time to catch Eponine lay her hand on Combeferre’s arm, who blinks, and goes still.

Grantaire would feel guilty about spying on a private moment, but he’s also really really curious, so. And this way he can tease Eponine about it later.

“But it’s also irrevocably rude of me to drag you out of bed after crashing on your sofa. Go back to bed, we can figure our way out.”

Combeferre blinks again, and Eponine removes her hand, wrapping it around her coffee mug. Grantaire nudges her hip with his shoulder.

“Well,” Combeferre says, and stands up. There’s a quiet smile curving his mouth. “When you put it like that, it would be churlish to refuse.”

They watch as he shuffles back to his room.

As soon as the door closes behind him, Grantaire opens his mouth, but Eponine beats him to it. “Not one word. Or I won’t tell you in detail how you missed Enjolras wondering around in his boxers.”

“You’re a terrible friend and I hate you.”

“Be grateful. He was making angry noises at finding us here, although why he would bother after all these times, and I had to threaten him to make him go away without waking you. If you’re befuddled now, think how you would have been two hours ago and faced with a near-naked Enjolras.”

Grantaire considers this. “You are a wonderful friend and I love you.”

“Excellent. Now, let’s go before Combeferre’s guilt gets the better of him and he feels compelled to make us breakfast.”

“He makes a good breakfast, though.”

“Yes, but I want to go swimming this morning.”

The staring contest which ensues is only lost because Grantaire still can’t keep his eyes open for too long. “I’ve had five hours of sleep,” he complains, “and too much wine. I’m going to be sick if you make me exercise.”

“Bollocks, it’ll be refreshing, and you can make me breakfast after. Besides, it’s Saturday morning – think of all the yummy mummies we can scandalise with our tattoos and high-faluting talk.”

Grantaire sighs. Why is everything. “Fine. But I’m getting a coffee at the station. And you must promise to not start talking about Judith Butler again, my head is not clear enough for that.”

Grinning, Eponine pats his head, then pulls the blankets off him. “I was planning on Foucault anyway.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire tries to imagine what they see; dark hair, still humid and curling around his face, his face pale and made paler by his dark jumper. A gothic picture, no doubt, or perhaps romantic; a Romantic about to die of consumption. He coughs, just to see if that fits, but no, only a headache and nausea for him. Still, he decides, at least he must look poetic. 
> 
> “You look terrible,” says Enjolras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to liseuse for the beta! You are, as ever, invaluable.
> 
> My apologies for the very late delivery of this chapter - it is not, in fact, New Year of 2014, but rather August of 2015. I can promise the next chapter will not take as long, although I cannot say how long it will be - I am aiming for November, but we'll see.

Chapter Two

 

Grantaire survives the weekend by ignoring both his gmail account (where all his Les Amis correspondence goes) and any form of news (which is likely to inspire emails on the Les Amis list). Sometimes he likes to take the weekend off and pretend that he doesn’t know any of them. 

He calls his mother and asks after his cousins in Barcelona. They talk about going to visit in the summer, and about how wonderful it would be to pay Spanish prices for supermarket wine. She tells him about a biography of André Malraux that she has been reading, and he ends up buying it off iTunes after their call and spends the rest of the day in French. By the time Monday morning arrives, he hasn’t used English in over 24 hours.

It can be disconcerting, these shifts in language, but Grantaire has been bilingual for 31 years and knows how to manage. And immersing himself in English by reading the latest instalment of Enjolras’s blog is a good way to start.

The blog is called _If You Tolerate This_ , and it is updated every Monday morning. Originally started as criticism for the then-Labour government’s education policies, the blog aims to point out logical flaws in current practice, and draws attention to research which offers alternative solutions. Since the Lib-Con coalition of 2010, it has done this through satire.

There’s a joke somewhere about laughing because otherwise you would never stop crying.

Enjolras works in the Ministry of Education; recruited at Oxford, advanced through the fast-track stream, and trained to be a senior adviser on primary education. In addition to the civil servant’s contempt for the government, he has strong opinions about the class system and its effect on British schools. And these days, it is possible to make him explode by merely mentioning Michael Gove or Nicky Morgan, although Grantaire has mostly stopped doing that since he’s worried Enjolras might actually strangle him. He appreciates that it must be difficult when his most pessimistic and cynical predictions are proven right on a daily basis. 

It’s just that Enjolras looks kind of devastatingly attractive when he’s angry, and Grantaire has found it all too easy to go back to the habit of poking him since he moved to London.

The thing is, Enjolras is brilliant, but his brilliance tends to expend itself on linear lines, following every logical thought to its inexorable conclusion. There is no deviation and no allowance for human frailty. It makes him a superb logician, but terrible at politics. Grantaire finds this almost endearing, especially as there is hypocrisy at the heart of it; the reason behind Enjolras’s focus is a great passion for justice, and his explosions of feelings because the world dares to be less than what it should be. Enjolras is a reasonable creature, and as Benjamin Franklin noted, that allows one to find a reason for everything one has a mind to do.

All of which makes his blog the most amazingly perverse and disruptive thing Grantaire has ever seen. There are arguments, of course, every failure in thinking ever made by the minister for education exposed and elegantly presented. But the mockery is what enthrals Grantaire. 

That and the fact that Enjolras’s blog is named after a Manic Street Preachers song. Grantaire likes to imagine Enjolras sitting in a pub with Combeferre, talking about revolution through digital media, and being suddenly inspired by nostalgia brought on by an early noughties playlist. Then again, if Enjolras were a secret fan of some band, it would be Manic Street Preachers. Or possibly U2. Grantaire hasn’t asked, for fear of a disappointing _no_ – it’s much better to imagine Enjolras writing an angry speech while nodding along to Sunday Bloody Sunday.

This week’s instalment involves a ministerial committee in charge of planning changes in the history curriculum, written in the style of Terry Pratchett. Several lines are lifted directly from _Jingo_ , (with appropriate footnotes, Enjolras is nothing but meticulous and meticulously honest). Grantaire suspects this is Eponine’s idea – the analogy is indeed glorious – yet the idea of Enjolras as a reader of Pratchett is kind of endearing.

Grantaire puts down his iPad and picks up his phone to text Combeferre.

IS ENJOLRAS A SECRET PTERRY FAN OR IS THAT ALL EPONINE?

He has ten minutes to finish his coffee before he must run for the train. One good thing about his shitty job at the National Gallery is that he doesn’t have to be in until 10. Grantaire likes to lord this over his friends, especially Eponine who really doesn’t see why she has to be at the university for 9 when she doesn’t teach until 12.

His phone beeps.

I COULD TELL YOU BUT IT WILL BE SO MUCH MORE FUN IF YOU ASK HIM YOURSELF. I TRUST YOU ARE STILL COMING TOMORROW.

Well. Grantaire downs his coffee, puts the cup down, and texts with both hands.

FUCK OFF. I AM GOING TO HAVE A HEADACHE.

The thing is, Combeferre knows quite well that Grantaire has never in his life texted Enjolras. He has his number (everybody has everybody’s number, for “revolutionary emergencies”) and he has received succinct group texts from Enjolras about group things. (I HAVE BEEN INFORMED THAT WIDENING THE RANGE OF THEMATIC COLOURS AT THE WEBSITE WOULD BE ADVISABLE. DOES ANYONE HAVE A CREDITABLE ALTERNATIVE OR ADDITION TO RED is Grantaire’s favourite, and has been saved for perpetual hilarity.)

Enjolras knows Grantaire reads his blog, as he offers his commentary freely and loudly enough. It would not be unreasonable to contact him directly about a specific point. Especially as Pratchett is a writer on whom Grantaire is known to have opinions. It would be strange if he said nothing.

Or, possibly, he is letting himself be even more than usually ridiculous about Enjolras. Grantaire takes a moment to rub his face with his hands, and breathes. _You are a rational adult. You have a job, you pay your bills, you know how to feed yourself, and how to clean the bathroom so that your mother doesn’t despair of you. You talk to people every day for professional as well as personal reasons. This is not beyond your abilities._

He stands up, rolls his shoulders, and picks up his phone again. Composes a text message: ARE YOU A SECRET PTERRY FAN OR WAS THAT ALL EPONINE? Sends to Enjolras.

There. And he will definitely have a headache tomorrow. And probably on Friday. There is actually no reason for him to see Enjolras ever again.

Grantaire nods at himself, pleased at his maturity, and realises he’s going to be late for work.

 

*

 

Terror and work keep him from checking his phone until lunch. When he dares to look at it at two, there’s been no reply. Grantaire finishes his sad Sainsbury’s sandwich, and then walks over to the gallery with the Renaissance Combeferre and glares at it for fifteen minutes. In the afternoon, he goes to a meeting about outreach projects in underprivileged schools, and afterwards his boss tells him that she was very impressed by his enthusiasm. Apparently his determination not to think about Enjolras came across as determination to engage with young people. Grantaire is never going to attend a meeting again.

When he returns to his desk, there is a message from Enjolras.

GOOD AFTERNOON. I AM FAMILIAR WITH PRATCHETT’S WORK, ALTHOUGH I WOULD NOT NECESSARILY CLASSIFY MYSELF AS A FAN. HOWEVER. IN THIS CASE, THE IDEA WAS EPONINE’S. THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONCERN.

Grantaire smiles, helplessly. A frosty Enjolras is a familiar thing; something he knows how to deal with.

MY MOST HUMBLE APOLOGIES FOR THE ABRUPTNESS OF MY MISSIVE. THE INTERTEXTUALITY QUITE OVERWHELMED ME AND I FOUND MYSELF BURNING WITH THE DESIRE TO KNOW ITS ORIGIN. WHICH IS YOUR FAVOURITE BOOK?

He doesn’t get a reply until the evening, when he’s watching TV with his dinner.

NIGHTWATCH. YOURS?

Grantaire frowns, and pauses iPlayer. The reasons why this is wrong require all of his attention.

BUT THAT IS A BOOK THAT MAKES FUN OF BARRICADES. THEY ARE LITERALLY TAKING THE PISS OUT OF THE IDEA OF A CITIZEN-LED REVOLT. I DON’T UNDERSTAND YOU. MINE IS UNSEEN ACADEMICALS.

Enjolras’s reply is swift. Perhaps he also finds it important to tell Grantaire why he’s wrong.

IT’S AN INTERESTING TAKE ON EARLY CITY STATE POLITICS. AND I LIKE SAM VIMES. WHY UNSEEN ACADEMICALS?

THERE’S A BIT ABOUT A LONELY GLASS OF SHERRY THAT I FIND VERY MOVING.

That seems to be the end of it, and Grantaire settles back to his laptop. But half an hour later, he gets a text from Combeferre.

I SEE YOU TOOK MY ADVICE. I HOPE YOU DIDN’T BURST ANYTHING?

The idea that Combeferre talks to Eponine about him is one Grantaire has long since reconciled himself to – like other things relating to Eponine and Combeferre, it is best not to think about it too much – but it had never occurred to him that the same might be true for Combeferre and Enjolras. This, he realises, is both mortifying (since they live together, how bloody likely is that, _you idiot_ ) and terrifying, since it means that he now has evidence that Enjolras has expressed an opinion about him.

I AM GOING TO HAVE SUCH A HEADACHE TOMORROW. >:((((

Combeferre’s cheerful reply comes a minute later.

I’M SORRY TO HEAR THAT. BE SURE TO MENTION IT TO BAHOREL, SO THAT HE CAN CRADLE YOUR HEAD TENDERLY WHEN HE DRAGS YOU TO THE PARTY.

 

*

 

He wakes up with a headache, possibly because of Combeferre’s mysterious and mystical powers of telepathy, or possibly because he hasn’t been sleeping well and the cold makes him grit his teeth. By lunch-time it is bad enough that he considers actually calling off sick for both his boxing match with Bahorel and for Combeferre’s party. Bright lights and human voices are starting to make him twitch. But it won’t do; his friends will take it as an excuse, and send someone over to hassle him, and he never wants to have that conversation with Joly again about whether he is really ill or just thinking about it a lot.

He finishes work, goes to the gym, and tries to remember that physical activity is good for him. Boxing is something that forces him to concentrate, creates a focus for his scattered thoughts: it usually makes it easier to ignore his other thoughts, and this is why Grantaire classifies it as a treat and not a chore. It also reminds him that there are still enjoyable ways to use his body. His limbs become supple and more precise in their movements, and he feels alive in ways he rarely does while sober. But tonight it is hard to focus. His body feels in turns hot from the exercise and cold from exhaustion, and Bahorel’s face, usually a laughing target which rouses his own instincts to move, is a flickering pale blob.

The shower afterwards feels too good, and he doesn’t want to leave. Bahorel has to lean on the door and threaten him with Eponine’s wrath before he consents to exit the cubicle and get dressed. There is a curious moment of clarity where he realises that what he wants most right now is to sleep, and that this is not going to be happening for several hours.

The event is held at a nice hotel in Bloomsbury; nicer on the outside than in, but it being in Bloomsbury will count for a lot for most of Combeferre’s colleagues, both in closeness and in pretentiousness. Grantaire has met Combeferre’s colleagues before, and they are perfectly pleasant people if somewhat limited in their interests. He would argue that this is because they’re scientists, but Combeferre is currently taking a class in hieroglyphs at Birkbeck and he has a PhD in lepidoptology.

Combeferre is deep in talks with his boss when they arrive, but he breaks off when he sees them. Grantaire takes off his hat, and runs a hand through his hair. It’s still wet from the shower, but the warmth of the room should make it dry up soon. He knows he should appreciate the heat, knows that he’s been uncomfortably cold all day, but right now it is making his head hurt worse.

Combeferre is frowning at him in a way that makes Grantaire want to frown back, but that would mean moving his forehead. 

“You look a bit pale. Are you feeling ok? Have you eaten?”

Grantaire blinks, and thinks about saying _I had a depressed sandwich at work, and then I went to boxing and didn’t have time to eat because I had to come here, all because you told me to. And now I’m complaining about this because I’m a massive drama queen._

“I’m fine. It’s my jumper, this shade of red always makes me look a bit consumptive.”

Both Bahorel and Combeferre grin at this.

“It is a fine shade of red,” Bahorel agrees.

“Very revolutionary. Enjolras will approve. Although, sadly, he is in green today, so you do not match.”

Grantaire knows he is being teased, that his friends are hoping he will splutter and shriek and explain in excessive terms why he is not trying to match with Enjolras ( _oh god, the thought,_ even in this exhausted state the idea sends a shiver of nauseating embarrassment through him). But he is tired, and he doesn’t want to, doesn’t really want to speak, he finds, so he just blinks again, and tries to locate the drinks table.

But now Bahorel is frowning, and beginning to look concerned. Combeferre, being a considerate soul, would never actually impose on someone who has refused attention, but Bahorel has no such limitations. Bahorel, if he thinks Grantaire is taking insufficient care of himself, will drag him home and make him eat disgusting things. Or rather, he will drag him to Eponine, who will do all of that, and when he’s well again will also make him suffer for making her care. Eponine has views about families, and why you shouldn’t have them, and she especially has views about treating your friends like family. No one has yet dared to point out to her that Les Amis are her family. (There’s a betting pool, actually, with Combeferre the likeliest contender, but Grantaire isn’t sure. Combeferre is too smart about Eponine to risk it – this, Grantaire suspects, is one of the reasons there is a Thing.)

But Bahorel is still talking. People shouldn’t talk when he’s having thoughts. Or at all. “You are a looking a bit ill, actually. Did I give you a concussion by accident? I didn’t think you hit your head _that_ hard.”

He is going to have to speak now; but only a little, and then he can go hide with the wine. The wine is an undemanding friend.

“Honestly, I’m fine, it’s just been a long day. I had a meeting at work, and they made me do things. You know how I feel about doing things. I just want to sit down and have a drink.”

Combeferre is looking at Grantaire with way too much attention, but after a while he nods.

“Right, well, everybody is sitting over there,” he gestures towards one of the booths by the windows, “so come and join us when you’ve got your drink. I need to finish a thing with my boss, but I’ll be with you shortly.”

Grantaire nods agreeably, which seems to elicit another suspicious frown, and retreats towards the drinks table. He goes to stand beside a curvaceous redhead: Bahorel, following him, picks up a conversation with her, and doesn’t notice Grantaire sliding away towards the nibbles. 

He isn’t really hungry, but he knows he should eat something; the nausea that keeps trying to claw at his consciousness will take over soon if he doesn’t. The problem with food in events like this, though, is that you really need three hands to eat it. One for holding the plate, one for eating off the plate, and one for holding your drink. There’s always the possibility of eating directly off the serving plates, but the kind of food served here – olives, ricotta-stuffed peppers – makes that unfeasible. Basically, he’s going to have to find somewhere to sit, and keep the plate in his lap. 

There’s always the table with his friends. But if he goes there, he’s going to have to talk.

Then again, if he goes and sits next to Enjolras, he will do his best to engage whoever is on his other side in conversation. This is not simply Grantaire indulging in melodrama; it is a thing that happens. Once he even mentioned it to Combeferre, who’d nodded in agreement and asked him why he thought that it was happening.

Usually, Grantaire knows (and is capable of applying that knowledge) not to engineer situations where all his bad feelings will arise. But tonight all his bad feelings are concentrated on his head, and he is perfectly happy to ignore Enjolras and his avoidance tactics.

Decision made – decisions are hard when your head hurts this much, Grantaire reminds himself, so well done you – he picks up a plate, and starts to fill it with food. Two kinds of olives, the aforementioned ricotta-stuffed peppers (double the amount he would want to eat, because he knows Eponine will steal his food), several canapés with salmon, and a large slice of chocolate cake. These are all things that will make his life better, and he won’t have any time for Enjolras when he is focused on them.

Les Amis de la Révolution are among the least loud of the drunken groups attending the event. Possibly because scientists go mad when unleashed from their laboratories. Grantaire has suggested this to Combeferre several times, and no matter how many exasperated explanations he hears about what they actually do at the Wellcome Trust, he continues to believe it. 

His friends have taken over one of the larger tables, and Grantaire sees that Courfeyrac has already liberated two bottles from the drinks table – the same red that he is holding in his hand, in fact. A French pinot noir, light enough to go with a wide selection of finger food. He hasn’t yet tasted it. It will be a treat, a relief once he gets to sit down.

A pleasant distraction, once he sits down next to Enjolras. Who is, once again, sitting at the end of the table, having probably arrived late. Eponine sits on his other side (and won’t that be a fun and terrifying conversation to overhear), while Feuilly is placed opposite. Grantaire speeds up his steps. Feuilly tends to have a calming influence on them all.

His impending arrival is noted, and observed; all three turn to look at him. Only Feuilly smiles. Eponine looks at him with a frown, and Enjolras with a careful lack of expression.

Right. He is only going to talk to Feuilly. And maybe his wine glass. 

Grantaire puts down his plate, his glass, and his coat, before sitting next to Enjolras. He would have to actively turn towards him to talk to him now, which Enjolras won’t do. Except in this case, he does; all three are looking at him.

Grantaire tries to imagine what they see; dark hair, still humid and curling around his face, his face pale and made paler by his dark jumper. A gothic picture, no doubt, or perhaps romantic; a Romantic about to die of consumption. He coughs, just to see if that fits, but no, only a headache and nausea for him. Still, he decides, at least he must look poetic. 

“You look terrible,” says Enjolras.

Well. Enjolras seems actually concerned, his serious gaze for once not contemptuous, so Grantaire decides that this is not a deliberate insult. Still, it deserves an incredulously raised eyebrow, which accomplished, Grantaire leans back against the wall and closes his eyes.

“Are you coming down with something?,” asks Eponine. “You look like you have a fever.”

“Not to mention the uncharacteristic silence,“ Enjolras’s voice sounds almost fond. Grantaire tries not to smile at that, but he is too weak to fight it.

“He’s definitely not ok,” says Eponine, suddenly decisive. “Try his forehead, see if he feels hot.”

Grantaire opens his eyes at that. Enjolras looks worried still, but Eponine, sitting behind him, is smirking a little. She knows that the threat of being touched by Enjolras would rouse him.

“I’ve had a long day, that’s all,” he repeats. But this audience is not as easily persuaded as Combeferre and Bahorel, or possibly he just looks worse. Eponine is staring at him, unconvinced, and Enjolras’s hand twitches like he’s tempted to act out Eponine’s suggestion. Grantaire will have to slide out of his chair, and then he’ll end up on the floor and not get up again, and everything will be terrible. Enjolras would probably try to help him up, and then Grantaire would explode.

It’s possible his headache is making him more than usually melodramatic.

He is saved from himself (and from Enjolras) by Combeferre, who chooses that moment to join them. He takes a seat opposite Grantaire, and frowns.

“I look terrible, yes, I know. I have been told. _More than once._ ”

Combeferre refuses to find his exasperation amusing. If his friends are no longer willing to laugh at him, what’s the point of them?

“Actually, I was wondering if you wanted a painkiller. I’ve got some of the good stuff in my bag.” 

Combeferre does, indeed, have the good stuff – some central European painkiller, from where over-the-counter drugs are stronger. He is always happy to share them, too, which makes him Grantaire’s favourite person in the mornings.

He would, in fact, like a painkiller. Grantaire puts his hand out. Combeferre, smiling, takes the packet from his messenger bag, and carefully drops a pill in his palm. Grantaire takes it with a sip of wine; eh, the bottle has been open a bit too long. Maybe Courfeyrac’s bottle will be better. He drowns the rest of the glass quickly, trying not to taste, then passes his glass along the table to be refilled. Eponine, thankfully, does not hesitate, and both Feuilly and Combeferre know not to comment.

Sadly Enjolras is not burdened with such knowledge. He is not saying anything, yet, but he’s looking at Grantaire, and looking at his wineglass, and there is a thought clearly forming in his brain.

Grantaire is not having that. He curls his hand tighter around his glass, and leans closer to whisper.

“If you even think about telling me to put this glass down, I will throw it in your face.”

For some reason this makes Enjolras look amused rather than offended. Clearly he is not taking Grantaire’s threat seriously.

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“Your face does that thing.”

“That…what thing?”

“That thing! With your face! The frowny thing, with your mouth, and your nose in the air! Sometimes your hair joins in too.”

“You think my hair is…disapproving?”

“It joins in with the rest!”

Someone could say – and no doubt someone will say, tomorrow, at length – that Combeferre’s Good Stuff is already having a strong effect on Grantaire, and that he should definitely put the glass down. (He will not put the glass down. It’s a question of principle.) But really, it’s just his headache, which removes what little filter he has with Enjolras. He can see Eponine is laughing at him, so it can’t be too bad yet – she would talk over him and distract the others if he got too embarrassing.

“My hair, really?”

“Your hair is very judgemental. It disapproves of lesser hair.”

Enjolras is definitely laughing now, but also exasperated. “There’s nothing wrong with your hair, Grantaire.”

Grantaire feels oddly pleased. He pulls at his hair. It hurts his scalp; clearly it is lesser hair.

He chooses not to voice that thought, though, and concentrates on his food instead. Food is less argumentative, and also delicious – these olives are amazing, and he still has a plate full of stuffed peppers. Maybe he can finish them all before Eponine steals them.

There is conversation around him, Combeferre chatting to Feuilly in a low voice, Eponine and Enjolras bickering about Neil Gaiman (as far as Grantaire can make it out, neither of them likes him, but for different reasons). It’s nice, and he doesn’t have to talk. His headache is starting to recede.

“Why do you think I’m judging you?”

They must have settled the question of what is wrong with Neil Gaiman, for Enjolras is once again facing Grantaire. The abruptness of his question, however, draws the attention of the others. Combeferre, his serious face on, puts forth a suggestion. “Perhaps it’s your face.”

Enjorlas’s face is hilariously confused. “What’s wrong with it?”

Grantaire stuffs a pepper into his mouth to keep from saying _there is nothing wrong with your face._

But Eponine has the matter in hand. “It’s your aristocratic nose. It looks down on us peasants, and your perfect jaw provides it with a virtuous backbone. Then there’s your hair which, as Grantaire pointed out, is too perfect a riot of blond curls not to make all other hair feel inferior. The thing is, Enjolras, that you’re kind of angelically beautiful.”

“…and not like the cherubim,” interjects Feuilly.

“Yes, and that means your face gets to judge other faces. At least according to our current system of patriarchal beauty standards.”

Grantaire has many opinions about Enjolras’s perfect face. However, he knows that it would be a very stupid idea to offer them at this point, no matter how many knowing smiles Combeferre throws in his direction. And he knows Eponine is deliberately taunting him (mostly Enjolras, but also him) with her talk, and so he’s going to…not be taunted. So there. 

“I had a meeting at work yesterday,” he says instead.

His friends don’t talk over his non-sequiturs; they assume there is a relevant point coming. This is one of the reasons he still wants to speak to them. Also, one of the reasons he mostly doesn’t want to speak to other people.

“They were talking about the outreach programme, you know, where we send people to schools to talk to young people. They’re sort of ambassadors of the National Gallery, trying to get people to come on organised visits – not individual visits, mind, but organised visits which we can sort of sell as corporate visits, and then spin out as a reason to get more funding. Which is all fine, but the arguments they were making…”

He is still staring at the table – it is a sign, he knows, when looking at people in the eye gets too hard, but he decides to think about it later – and it’s almost there, the thought he was sort of chasing all afternoon, something percolating at the back of his mind as the discussion ran on. It wouldn’t have been something he would have said, not out loud, at work, but there had been a point.

“It’s not just that they clearly had no idea about how kids work, I don’t have any idea about how kids work myself and I am perfectly happy to remain mystified. But they were talking about it in terms of ‘added value’, for the schools, for the students. They meant it in terms of looking good on UCAS applications or at Oxbridge interviews. ‘Demonstrable experience of and engagement with culture’, my boss said, as if they’re preparing for a job interview on being a cultured person. She had all these ideas about the pre-made materials we could offer them – ready-made opinions, basically, to be regurgitated back on request.”

Grantaire is looking at the table as he speaks, but in the corner of his eye he can see Enjolras leaning in, turning towards him. He forces himself not to lean back, and looks up.

Enjolras is angry, and happy with it. 

“No need for individual opinion, heaved forbid a student should develop their own thoughts on art rather than repeat whatever they’ve been told it means.” Enjolras’s voice is maliciously pleased, as if finally articulating a criticism he has been keeping in for too long. Sometimes Grantaire forgets that their jobs can overlap; that what makes him frustrated at work might also turn Enjolras incandescent with rage. 

“Yes, exactly,” he says. Speaking is not so hard now, he can open his mouth and things will come out. All he has to do is follow his voice.

“And sure, sometimes you don’t care that much about what you’re seeing, sometimes a bit of context can make a painting more interesting. But that’s not what they were talking about. They were planning to sell, well, not the experience, but a kind of a certificate of having had the experience. No actual experiencing necessary.”

He realises, in the silence that follows, that he has been angry about this since yesterday, that it’s not just his usual low-grade contempt for the policies and hypocrisies of his workplace. This isn’t simply a question of politics.

It is Combeferre who asks the question; a question his other friends might have avoided, out of courtesy, for fear of a disappointing response. But Combeferre trusts him to be a better man than he is. The bastard.

“And what did you say to them?”

Lucky for them all that he has an answer. Grantaire smiles, but only for show. “I derailed then, of course. Told them a moving story about being taken to the Louvre by my mother when I was ten, how I saw a sculpture of Marie Antoinette and it made me want to study history, because how marvellous is it that we should know the shape of her nose? This woman, who died two hundred years ago, whose name is known by schoolchildren everywhere, and we know the exact shape of her nose?”

“And were they moved?”, asks Feuilly, with a light smile. Grantaire matches it, with real if cynical amusement.

“They nodded earnestly, and moved swiftly away from the idea of other museums, foreign museums at that, since they all know that all current funding bids have to be based on promoting British values. Which, as mostly a museum of foreign art, we have enough trouble with as it is.”

“Could you spin it as a history of British collecting over the centuries?” suggests Eponine.

Grantaire grimaces. “No, because that would lead the debate to the Elgin Marbles, and nobody wants to go down that route.”

Enjolras huffs, then jolts as Combeferre kicks him under the table. That conversation has been had, and nobody wants to hear another screaming match on cultural appropriation vs. scholarly needs. Grantaire is too tired anyway, and might end up agreeing with Enjolras out of sheer exhaustion. Not that that wouldn’t be a hilarious experiment, which he will definitely try some day.

His face seems to be doing the smiling thing again, but Enjolras is watching now, and no one else is; the conversation has moved on. Combeferre is talking to Feuilly about the Tunisian revolution, while Eponine listens, attentive but silent. It takes guts to speak to two Algerians about the Arab Spring, and Combeferre is not a man who is ignorant of where he lacks knowledge. He wouldn’t speak if he didn’t know what he was talking about.

Enjolras, on the other hand, would ask.

“Do they know that you’re half French?”

There is a half-bitter twist on his face; not, Grantaire suspects, unlike the one on his own. This is an experience they share.

“Technically, yes. But in practice, they forget.”

“Because you sound so English?”

Grantaire nods. “Because I sound just like an English person.”

Enjolras stills, tilts his head. “Has somebody actually said that to you?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Oh yes. Not that there’s anything wrong with being English, of course.”

“Well,” says Enjolras, darkly. Grantaire shrugs again, but he doesn’t disagree.

They are half-French or part-French or mostly-French, but they are also English; sufficiently English to pass, and be categorised as One of Us in the Us vs Them debate. They get to hear what the Us say about the Them when they think there is none of Them present.

Grantaire ignores it most of the time, because what is there to do, people are people and therefore terrible. Enjolras, he knows, enacts a war of attrition through blistering sarcasm, which makes him deeply unpopular anywhere outside their group. They all have different ways of dealing with it. Combeferre smiles calmly and picks holes in their logic. Cosette transforms herself into the embodiment of offended French hauteur, and scares the shit of out people. Jehan unleashes his frightening reserves of pan-European erudition and makes every opponent ashamed of their ignorance, but he is the only one of them who is solely a French national and that tends to be seen as an excuse for his rhetorical excesses. Eponine, with her Scottish father and Algerian mother, makes a point of not being one of Us in any situation. Feuilly, with his French-Algerian parents, smiles and says nothing. They are all at war with the world, but not all can afford to fight.

It is the underlying current in all their conversation, in all their activism from university to the present. They are angry about many things – there are many things to be angry about – but this is what drives the Friends of the Revolution: that what should have been home keeps telling them they are not welcome.

But Grantaire’s head feels better now, and Enjolras looks bitter, so he asks. “Do you remember the first time you went to Paris?”

Enjolras stills in the middle of an internal yet visible rant. He turns to Grantaire, surprised.

“Yes. I was twelve. Both my parents came, that time – my mother and I were going to visit grandmère, who was staying with her sister near Toulouse, and my father came with us as far as Paris. I remember him being rude to the waiters, a lot more than he tends to be in England, and I remember wondering why my mother didn’t order for us since she spoke French. I think she tried once, but he spoke over her.”

“Did she teach you French when you were little?”

A brief grimace flickers over Enjolras’s face.

“When I was very little. She is not precisely fluent herself, you understand, but it was the language her mother had spoken to her when she was a child. But my father didn’t like it, and she stopped. I was taken to classes, of course, like everybody else in our circles, but that was with a teacher who was English himself, and who was quite happy for us to speak French like Englishmen.”

It occurs to Grantaire that they are having an honest conversation, rather than a conversation through their respective facades. 

He clears his throat. “I had a teacher like that, in sixth form. She thought it was a kindness, tried to be reassuring – don’t worry, you don’t have to try the pronunciation.”

“And what did she say when you corrected her with your perfect French accent?”

Enjolras is looking gleeful now, and Grantaire, even as he knows he is about to disappoint, feels a brief burn of satisfaction.

“Surely you’re not assuming that I ever raised my voice in class. That would have required interacting with people, you know I don’t like that.”

Enjolras huffs, but it’s almost a laugh, and it’s fine. Grantaire says nothing more, clears his throat and sips his wine. Enjolras is looking at him, attentive now, and the wine helps. He can feel it making friends with Combeferre’s painkillers in his belly. 

Enjolras, still smiling faintly, takes a drink from his glass, and frowns. Probably he is also having an already-poured glass.

“When I came back from France that summer, I’d spent two months speaking mostly French with grandmère and was consequently mostly fluent. My father was unhappy, but I was going away to school so he forgot about it soon enough. And on the first day of school I met Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who had had more or less the same experience, and so we ganged up against all the people making fun of us and that was that.”

This part of the story Grantaire has heard before, but it grows no less entertaining in the re-telling. “And changed your names to suit your new personas?”

Enjolras schools his features into his Very Serious and Reasonable Face. Grantaire has seen it directed at university officials, friends’ parents, and on one memorable occasion, an Oxford police officer, but never for comedic purposes.

“It is a perfectly respectable tradition to name one’s children after their grandparents. And since my parents had decided to include ‘Enjolras’ in their list of names, why not tell the school that this is what I was called at home?”

Why indeed. The ways of posh people are a constant mystery to him. “And of course they believed you.”

Grantaire can imagine it, a tiny Enjolras with his angelic curls and earnest face, informing the headmaster that he was to be called by his fourth name, yes, that one that you can see in the enrolment records, and won’t it be easier to have one less Alexander? Who would argue back?

“Of course they did,” says Enjolras, still smug after twenty years. “And my father didn’t hear about it until four years later, by which point it was too late and we were arguing about too many other things for him to care.”

Grantaire hasn’t seen his own father in ten years. He suspects Enjolras wishes he could say the same.

It is possible his face is betraying his thoughts, because Enjolras graces him with a sudden bright smile, blatantly fake, and strange on him. 

“Anyway, he took us to the Louvre. He wasn’t interested in art or history, understand,” Enjolras pauses and Grantaire notes, for the second time, the echoes of French phrasing when he speaks of his parents, “but as we were in Paris, we had to visit the Louvre. They started arguing as soon as we got there, so I told my mother that I would meet them at the entrance in two hours and slipped away. I wasn’t that interested, to be honest, but I liked wandering around by myself. And in a foreign place, trying to catch people speaking French. Which obviously many did. But anyway, I was walking around, not really looking, and I found myself in the history gallery. And suddenly there was – ”

“ _Liberty Leading the People_?” Grantaire laughs, delighted, because this is too good to be true. Of all the obvious things. Enjolras smiles, rueful, clearly expecting to be mocked, but for some reason the urge does not arise. Grantaire gestures, _go on_. “And what did you think, at the time?”

“Not much. I didn’t know its history or anything, but I liked the colours. And the, the dynamics, I think you would call it, the arrangement?” This last is a question, and after a moment Grantaire realises that he, as the expert on art history, is expected to provide an answer. He nods hastily.

“I liked it, that’s all.” Enjolras sounds like this is a puzzle he has tried to resolve many times. “I wandered away after a while, but I kept coming back. I wanted to see it again. In the end I sat down in front of the painting and that’s where my mother found me, an hour after we’d planned to meet.”

And there it is, tiny Enjolras having his first encounter with art, unable to articulate why but profoundly moved. Not unlike his own experience, Grantaire realises. But the thing is, though…

The thing is. What is the thing? There was definitely a thing. Something about…oh yes. That.

“While worshipping at the foot of liberty, did you happen to turn around at any point?”

Worshipping is a good word. Grantaire is proud of himself for thinking about it. For some reason, it came to mind. He’s not going to think about why. He knows why, and he knows why it’s best not to think about it.

“ _The Death of Sardanapalus_ , you mean? No, not then, although I have seen it since, of course. Is it a favourite of yours?”

“Because I too surpassed all my ancestors in indolence and self-indulgence?” 

Quotations are great. Grantaire loves quotations. Also Diodorus. Diodorus is great. Delacroix, on the other hand, is fucking terrible.

“Nope, I hate it. Delacroix is fucking terrible. Using realism to serve his stupid romantic ideas, it’s just really…stupid. And terrible.”

It is possible that the wine is no longer making friends with Combeferre’s painkillers, but rather waging war. Or perhaps they have made sweet love, and are now sleeping it off. Grantaire, too, wants to sleep it off. Whatever it is. His brain is not working very well now.

But there is a table in front of him, and he is going to put his forehead on it and close his eyes. Just for a while.

The table is great. He loves the table.

“…only had two glasses, he can’t be passing out…”

“…would they have knocked him out? I was going to tell him not to, but then…”

“…I think he has a fever, he feels hot. We should…”

There is hand on his back, warm. From its direction it feels like it would be Enjolras’s hand, but it can’t be, because then Enjolras would be touching him and he remembers deciding earlier that he would have to explode if that happened. And he doesn’t want to explode. He’s too tired. So it can’t be.

“…need to get him home. I can…”

“I’ll do it, I was about to head off anyway. And I know you didn’t want to leave so early.”

They are talking about him. Grantaire thinks he shouldn’t like that, but for some reason he does. Except now they are not talking. Which probably means that Enjolras and Combeferre are giving each other meaningful looks.

Suddenly he is pulled up, and Combeferre’s fingers are on his cheek, holding his face up. Combeferre, crouching before him, looks worried.

Maybe he passed out for a bit there. That’s not good.

“You’ve got a cold, Grantaire, and I think you’ve got a fever. We’re going get you home, and you’re going to stay in tomorrow. I’ll try to drop by during my lunch hour and bring you some more painkillers. First, though, you need to have this.”

A glass is pressed against his mouth, and Grantaire drinks; that’s what glasses are for. Hmm, orange juice. It’s refreshing, his brain likes that.

He finds himself pushed out of his chair, and pulled up, held between Combeferre and Feuilly. They are moving, and Enjolras is walking ahead of them, talking on his phone. 

The world becomes confusing again for a while, but at some point Grantaire is deposited in a taxi. Enjolras sits down next to him, looks at his phone, and gives out Grantaire’s address.

That is strange. And perturbing. And strange.

“How do you know my address?”

Enjolras frowns at him. “I have everybody’s address. In case of emergencies.”

“What emergency would…”, _words, words are hard, words_ , “require you to have my address?”

Enjolras blinks. “Christmas cards. Are you feeling any better?”

Grantaire thinks. He is feeling a bit better. Not well, mind, but better.

“A little. I think I…”

“Combeferre says you have a fever. That’s what would have made you feel weak, and made the mixture of wine and painkillers hit you so hard. It should wear out soon, but you need to be in bed when that happens.”

Enjolras is going to put him to bed. Grantaire is definitely not going to think about that. Not now, at least. Later, he will probably think about it too much.

Thinking is easier now, but it can still be a bad idea. Grantaire tries to focus on following the route home. He usually takes the train and the tube, or the tube and the bus, so this is new: Euston Road, Paddington, Edgware Road, Maida Vale, Kilburn. Cricklewood, and that is home.

And oh, here they are. Enjolras helps him out of the car, but Grantaire feels too sick to pay any attention. He hands over his bag, and pokes at the pocket where his keys are: Enjolras takes the hint, and fishes them out.

And then he is sitting on his sofa, and Grantaire loves his sofa, his sofa is fantastic, he has never been so happy in his life as he is now, reunited with his sofa.

“It looks very comfortable, but I think you should still try for bed. I’m sure it will be even more comfortable.”

It is true that Grantaire loves his bed. He has been lucky in his furniture. But the sofa is his current favourite.

Hey, his brain is working better now. Go brain.

“You should have a cup of tea before you go to bed,” Enjolras says. Grantaire opens one eye, and finds him looking around the kitchen, as if the arrangement of cupboards would tell him something crucial about Grantaire.

He closes his eye, and leans back on the sofa. “Careful, your inner Englishman is showing.”

The sounds of shoes moving across his floor alert him to Enjolras’s arrival; the cushion behind his head moves, as if pressed by someone’s hand. Grantaire opens both eyes.

Enjolras stands above him, looking down with a slight smile.

“ _Tais-toi, Grantaire; il n’a pas besoin de m’insulter._ ”

He looks amused, pleased almost, and Grantaire finds he cannot say any of the things that occur to him: that Enjolras is only a quarter French and therefore mostly English, that his search for tea proves this strain to be dominant, that he cannot even drink like a Frenchman as everybody (including his grandmother) knows. That if Grantaire cannot insult him, what is the point of _him_?

He closes his eyes again; this is hurting his head. “A hot drink would make it worse, I think.”

The cushion moves beside his head. Grantaire holds his breath, but nothing further happens.

“Just a glass of water, then,” says Enjolras, and moves away.

Grantaire closes his eyes again. He feels strange, exhausted but lucid; he can focus, and think, but he knows that as soon as he stops trying he will pass out again. Which is fine, he has reached home and a safe space to sleep, and sleep is what he needs. 

First, though, he has to deal with Enjolras, who is in his flat, who has brought him home, and who is currently bringing him a glass of water.

Grantaire takes a deep breath, and opens one eye. His head hurts, but he can still open the other one. The lights are dim, and all he needs to do is sit.

“There you go.” A tall glass is placed in his hand, and Grantaire drinks; he is getting good at this now. It feels nice, cooling his heated brain. Water, after wine, is the most delicious of things.

Enjolras pulls out a chair and sits across from him. That is unexpected – not leaving the flat as soon as he can, as soon as his duty is completed. He is looking at Grantaire, still attentive, and his brain doesn’t like that. It requires more focus than he can manage.

“I’ve never been to your flat before.”

This is true. It is also not surprising; Grantaire’s place is too small to host any parties, and he lives out of the way. Only Eponine, who lives four streets away, and Bahorel who has to take a brief walk and one tube stop, visit regularly. Combeferre has only been here because he takes his duties in getting drunken mates home very seriously. There are no group reasons for Enjolras to have been there, and they don’t interact outside the group. It would’t occur to Grantaire to suggest that they should.

But Enjolras looks unsettled, the sharp lines of his face alternating between seriousness and determination. A serious and determined Enjolras is familiar sight, but Grantaire cannot read him now. It is surely not news, that they are not friends? They are not friends for very specific and well-defined reasons.

Finally, Enjolras looks down. He wipes his hands on his trousers, and stands up. “I should let you get to sleep. There’s a train in ten minutes that I can catch.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire considers getting up, and decides against it. “Thanks for getting me home.”

“No problem. I hope you feel better soon.” And then he smiles, false but not so bright this time, and walks out. 

Grantaire stares at his empty glass. That was…something he’s going to have to think about later.

 

*

 

He wakes up to a headache. Well, he wakes up to a text message from Combeferre asking him how he’s doing, and telling him that he’s already called Grantaire’s workplace to tell them he’s sick so he won’t have to worry about sounding coherent on the phone. But his head hurts when he reads this, and it only gets better when he closes his eyes again and goes back to sleep.

Three hours later, he wakes up to the doorbell. He’s going to have to get up now.

Grantaire takes a moment to wait out the head rush, and then tries standing up. Standing up is a relative success, in that he is able to manage it without needing to sit down again immediately. Walking turns out to be a bit more complicated, but the wall is helpful, and guides him to the door.

Combeferre, blinking at the rain behind his glasses and holding a Co-op bag in each hand, manages somehow to look both cheerful and concerned. Grantaire has no patience for either of those things, but he lets him in anyway. Mostly because he really wants to sit down now. It is time he was reunited with his sofa.

He watches through half-open eyes as Combeferre makes himself at home in his kitchen. Tangerines go into the fruit-bowl (a gift from Joly), a packet of powerbars into the cupboard next to his tea, which feels wrong but Grantaire will deal with that later, and an assortment of foodstuffs on the counter – looks like Combeferre is going to cook. That Combeferre is the superior creator of food among them is a truth universally acknowledged among Les Amis, albeit sometimes grudgingly – there have been competitions, and Joly still refuses to agree that anyone can defeat his apple crumble. 

Grantaire enquires his belly how it would feel about some food. His belly makes a twinge of consideration, and then settles into raving hunger. Good to know.

Combeferre is talking. “I figure a chicken noodle soup will do you good, get you all your proteins and nutrients in one go. It will take about an hour, though, so you should have this first. And some tea, of course.”

Grantaire is presented with a powerbar, the fancy kind with yoghurt and blueberries. Combeferre goes back to foraging in the cupboards. He starts munching and thinks: it is not unlike Combeferre to take care of his friends. But a cooked meal in the middle of the day is a bit above and beyond. He is not dying, after all.

“Eponine was worried about you.”

Ah. That will explain much. Eponine does not like to be worried. “How did that work out?” 

Combeferre waves a hand in his direction. “It was fine, I let her take it out on me. In a positive and healthy way, of course. We had an argument over effective ways to support anti-capitalist activism in North Africa. She’s fine.”

That would be…actually, the best way to deal with a grumpy Eponine. Especially one who had been persuaded to stay in the pub rather than take Grantaire home.

“I told her that I was coming around this lunchtime to make sure you were all right and to feed you. She’s going to drop in later to make sure you haven’t passed out on your soup, and Bahorel will check in tomorrow.”

That sounds terribly like a…“Is there a rota?”

Combeferre blinks innocently at him. There is totally a rota. “No, of course not. We are all a bit worried, that’s all. If you check your phone, you will find a lot of messages.”

His phone is still in the bedroom. Grantaire feels no urge to interact with it just yet. He has a vague idea that there are things he will have to do – think, speak, possibly text or email – but he doesn’t have to do them yet, and so he’s going to sit on his sofa for now, eat his powerbar, and possibly cuddle a cushion while Combeferre makes him soup.

“…what happened with Enjolras last night. He was working when I got up this morning, which is unusual.”

Grantaire blinks. That was the thing he was going to not think about yet. One of them, at least. “Working?”

“On the blog. He usually does it in the evenings. Post-work rage, I assume.”

That sounds…quite characteristic, actually. Enjolras after work is not a calm person. Still, for it to be so organised a habit…

“Is he a wind-up toy that needs to be released?”

Combeferre smiles. “I would never make such a comparison.”

Grantaire snorts, and then starts to cough. “Not out loud,” he wheezes, and then has to put his head between his legs.

Well, this is definitely a cold and not a hangover. In the kitchen, Combeferre humphs, but comments no further, which is really comment enough.

Grantaire continues to sit, occasionally petting one of the cushions which he has decided to name Cyril, should anyone ask. At some point Combeferre brings him a cup of tea and takes away the wrapping of his powerbar. It is strange to be so lazy while somebody else is doing things in his kitchen. Grantaire is not a great cook, but he feeds Eponine often enough, knows how to make things that are edible at least. Most of the time, anyway. 

“Does Eponine know that you cook?”

Combeferre pauses mid-stir, turns around and quirks an eyebrow at Grantare.

“Have I invited her over for a private meal at my place? No, I don’t think that would go down well. But if you want to tell her how impressed you were with my skills, I have no objection.”

“Am I going to be impressed?”

“You’re going to be so impressed.” There is a definite note of smugness. 

“Is Enjolras impressed? I assume you cook for him.”

Combeferre makes a face. 

“I like to cook, but Enjolras is an ungrateful recipient of my largesse. He reads while he eats, and pays no attention to what he is eating. My cooking is wasted on him.”

A familiar pang; that Enjolras does things he doesn’t know about, that there are domestic habits, personal preferences, of which Grantaire is ignorant. Such pangs don’t come very often, these days, and Grantaire is used to them. He does not share a life with Enjolras, and this should not be something that still hurts after ten years; he does not want to, anymore, anyway; he knows they would be bad for each other; he knows Enjolras makes him actively miserable; he knows Enjolras doesn’t like him. So it shouldn’t hurt.

Combeferre is still watching him, but Grantaire is tired and says nothing. His head still hurts, and Enjolras was nice to him last night, which makes everything more complicated and difficult. 

Combeferre brings the soup over. He is using the wrong plates, but Grantaire is not going to say anything because he is grateful for the interruption of his mental digressions. Also, the soup is amazing, and Grantaire is actually impressed. 

Combeferre eats nothing himself, merely watches him, which would be creepy if Grantaire didn’t have years of experience of his creepy care-taking ways. Combeferre considers it his duty to look after his friends when they are ill – when it has been established beyond doubt that they are ill, that is, before this point he is a courteous and mild-mannered gentleman who would never intrude – and it is easier to just go with it. Arguing will only result in a calmly-delivered and relentless logical exposition on why this course of action is best, and sometimes, forced-feeding. Bahorel is not the only one who can put people into a headlock.

Grantaire eats his soup and makes appreciative noises. Best to avoid any situation that would lead Combeferre to think that he is not consuming enough. He even considers licking the bowl when he’s finished, but no, the spoon will have to do.

Combeferre looks pleased. 

“Well, now we’ve talked about your friend, and about my friend, maybe it’s time to talk about you.”

Grantaire tries to focus, but he is full of soup and digesting is taking all of his energy. He is not prepared for a serious conversation.

“I feel better now. Sorry for being such a mess last night.”

“You weren’t a mess, and even if you had been there would be no need to apologise. You’re not well, and we take care of our friends when they are not well.”

Grantaire suspects he means something more than an incipient cold and a bad reaction to wine and painkillers. However, he is not less stubborn than Combeferre, certainly not when it comes to not talking about things.

“I’m fine. Your soup has cured me. If you told me that it’s a magic soup created in the secret labs under the Wellcome building, I would absolutely believe you.”

He gets a burst of surprised laughter at that, but Combeferre refuses to be distracted.

“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better. There’s a lot left over, so you’ll have provisions for the next few days at least. I think Bahorel is bringing some muffins from Joly and Bossuet’s kitchen as well, and Eponine said something about fruit-juice and smoothies.”

There is definitely a rota somewhere. A Combeferre-shaped one, since it seems to be organised around Grantaire’s nutritional needs. Which is fine, and will properly prod him towards recovery more efficiently than his own choices (Jaffa Cakes and Sainsbury’s pizza) would have done, but it is a bit awkward to be minded like this. Especially as Combeferre is probably aware of what his own choices would have been.

Which doesn’t help his head hurt any less. Perhaps he should cough; it is useful to have a signal to suggest that everyone should now move away from emotionally complicated issues. On the other hand, wheezing is a possibility.

He settles for scrunching his face, and then tries to smile like a normal person.

“Thanks, anyway. Can I give you some money for the food, the chicken and stuff? You’ve really gone through a lot of effort here.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Combeferre waves a hand. “I don’t mind. You can return the favour someday, if you like.”

Grantaire repeats his scrunchy face. He is actually confused now. “You want me to cook for you?”

Combeferre’s smile is not precisely his evil smile, but it’s definitely a close relation.

“I would like you to show me how to cook your _coq au vin._ I never manage to get it right, and I’ve heard yours is delicious.”

The idea that Eponine tells other people about his cooking is unnerving on so many levels. But that’s for him to worry about another time; right now Combeferre is looking at him with his calm and imperturbable checkmate face, and Grantaire knows he cannot refuse.

“Sure, if you want. Next weekend? I should be better by then.”

“Great! I’ll look forward to it.” Combeferre stands to leave. Grantaire considers walking him to the door, but it would be cruel to distract his body from its digestion activities. He settles for nodding and smiling.

At the door, Combeferre waves, friendly and evil. “I’ll bring some dessert, a chocolate mousse or something, it will go nicely with the chicken.”

Grantaire nods, suspicious. Nothing evil about chocolate mousse, unless it’s the one Eponine makes.

“I might also bring a friend, but I’ll confirm that later. See you soon!”

The door slams shut; and Grantaire sits on his sofa thinking _no, NO, NO._

 

*

 

Grantaire thinks about making coffee; its absence is starting to make itself felt among the series of headaches behind his eyes, and it would be good to have something to do with his hands. A productive distraction. Grantaire is good at those.

He makes his coffee, and notes where Combeferre has put the peanut butter and the noodles. He’ll sort them out tomorrow, when he’s had time to go to the shops – he’ll want to do a trial run of the _coq au vin_ before he attempts to teach Combeferre. And Eponine will be less grumpy over worrying about him if he feeds her while she complains. That’ll be a plan for the weekend, something to keep him busy. He might even try making some biscotti, that would be a nice treat to have with his morning coffee. They’re never as nice as the ones he buys from the Italian place on Compton Street, but still. He wishes he had some now, to dunk in his mug.

But this is a thing that happened. He spoke to Enjolras, and they had an honest and friendly conversation about their lives. That doesn’t tend to happen. And Enjolras, he spoke to Grantaire as if he was one of his friends. Which also doesn’t tend to happen. 

He’s not sure what he wants to do about that. 

What he thinks about Enjolras, how he talks to Enjolras, is based on a well-established pattern. Sarcasm and mockery, occasional innuendo-laden suggestions, and a relentless onslaught of principled disagreement – Enjolras believes he is right about everything, and Grantaire cannot, will not, agree with that. In the weekly meetings of the Oxford French Revolution society, it had meant questioning the historical accuracy as well as the contemporary relevance of all of Enjolras’s proposals. In the weekly pub quiz at the Cock and Fox, it takes the form of undermining all attempts at serious political discussion with strategically irrelevant digressions, and pointing out the pointlessness of trying to change the world, since people are terrible and will not stop being so no matter how much Enjolras argues. It is not a _good_ pattern, he knows, but it is all he knows to do with Enjolras. He has to resist, to be hard about it, because otherwise he would give in so easily and then everything Enjolras thinks about him would be true.

Well, no. Grantaire sighs and sips his coffee. This is a conversation he has had with himself many times over the years; that Enjolras dislikes him does not mean that he is a worthless person; Enjolras barely knows him and his opinion should not be trusted; Grantaire knows that he is worth more than what Enjolras thinks, and knows that he is loved and valued by other people whom he also loves and values. He knows all this. Most of the time, he remembers this. 

Grantaire has been a mess for many years, but he is a functional mess, and he is okay. The only thing that can send him to a spiral of self-loathing and despair is Enjolras, and he has many defences in place for that. He has a system that mostly works.

But last night, he talked to Enjolras with none of his defences, and _that_ worked. Grantaire was too full of wine and painkillers to think about it while it was happening, to be self-conscious of either his problematic self or their long-standing war, and so what came out of his mouth was just _him._

His coffee is getting cold. Grantaire takes a long sip, chasing the evaporating warmth. 

It might be worth trying again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to liseuse for a wonderful and speedy beta!


End file.
